


Fury of Heaven

by roses_and_thorns3



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Angels, BAMF Clary Fray, Memory Loss, Multi, Parabatai Clizzy, Post-Canon, i'm so emo, post-series finale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-28 05:23:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18749872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roses_and_thorns3/pseuds/roses_and_thorns3
Summary: Clary Fray is the picture of youthful success. Accomplished art student, expensive new hairstyle, and she's surprisingly good at martial arts.Meet the man you've already met, and everything falls apart.===My Clary-loving soul is heartbroken and sad and emo, so here we fucking go, angels. I'm seeing this one through the end come hell or highwater.





	Fury of Heaven

"Miss Fray, a word?"

Clary looks up from her sketch, pencil clasped in one hand and the latte she's sipping from in the other.

Professor Leigh stands with his hands clasped in front of him, a friendly smile on his face. She grins, pencil rolling over paper as she gets to her feet.

The eyes look on in wonder: Light blue, broken in the right iris by a chunk of brown.

It’s the first non-abstract image she’s done that she doesn’t immediately dislike.

She follows her professor out of the Academy's on-site cafe and into the mess hall. Pausing in a small alcove, he begins speaking immediately.

"Got quite a few positive notes on your paintings in last night's exhibition. Congrats!"

 

A spark lights in her stomach, and she grins. "Oh gosh, that’s great! Thank you so mu--"

"However, I will say, I’m disappointed to see you dropped the style you’d used on your admission drawings."

The spark winks out just as quickly, lips thinning into a frown. "My--my admission drawings?"

He nods slowly, as if in confusion, "Yes. I'd never seen fictional creatures rendered with such detail. Twas truly something to behold. What made you change to abstract?"

 

Her lips part, and then shut, unsure of what to say. _What the hell are you talking about?_ Flits through her mind, but she doesn't deem it a viable option. “Uh, just … had a change of heart, is all," she recovers, quickly, "Had an epiphany. It was almost by mistake!” she's talking with her hands, trying to make it sound like anything other than a lie.

"I need not remind you, Miss Fray. The Brooklyn Academy of Art does not believe in _mistakes._ "

She starts, at this -- the sentence ringing like metal against metal.

 _The Brooklyn Academy of Art does not believe in_ mistakes.

 

This has been happening for the past month. One thing after another, just slightly ... off. A displacement of self, looking in the mirror only to find a reflection she didn't expect. Getting knocked on her ass d systema lessons and feel like she was in a different room, with a different trainer.

Like when she'd turn away from her canvas to smile at someone not there.

_The Brooklyn Academy of Art does not believe in mistakes._

_There_. The words click, and she's standing in the audience hall at noon sharp, ignoring her heart rate as the female who’d appraised her landscape drawings said those exact words. Right before Clary’d been accepted into the Academy and her life had begun.

Except, no. The woman hadn't liked the landscape drawings. The only word she'd had for them was  _decorative_. The appraiser had been talking about something else she'd drawn. Something…

“Miss Fray?”

Clary blinks. “Uh. Um. Sorry. I’m sorry, Professor Leigh. Could you say that one more time?”

He stares, maybe in concern, perhaps in incredulity, tongue darting out to wet his lips.  “I said, style change or otherwise, I believe in you, Clary. I trust you’ll sort yourself out before next showing, hmm?”

She smiles, easy and cool, like she’d practiced. “Of course! You got it, Professor Leigh.”

 

He nods, and departs. And Clary is left with a whirlwind of confusion. She walks back to her cafe table, gaze immediately landing on her sketchbook.

Jace. His name is Jace, and she has no idea why she knows that. Knows _him._

The moment in the alleyway had seemed to stretch on and on forever, his face and eyes and name all like staring into her _self._  Everything about him sung true. The ring on the chain around his neck, the tattoos on his skin. His scent.

Not for the first time in the past month, Clary urges herself to remember. _All I can paint are feelings._

After the moment had finally ended, Jace had taken a deep, shuddering breath, and turned to leave.

“W-wait!” she called, disconcerted by the wonder she’d been feeling. “Where are you going?”

He looks back as if he’d only barely been resisting the movement. “I … I have to go.”

She frowned. “Well, how will I find you, then?” Clary isn’t sure why she cared, but she did, undeniably. “You can’t just disappear,” she said, not knowing at all what she was doing.

Jace had seemed to deliberate, some invisible foe throwing punches at him as he thought it over. “Do you have any paper?”

 

She blinks, “Oh, oh yeah. Always.” she reaches down, freeing a small pad from the garter beneath her skirt, a pen stuck in its spirals. He writes down a number, and his name. She doesn’t finish reading it over before he’s gone.

Clary looks over the paper again, now. In the comfort of the cafe.

Sighing, she picks up her phone.

-

Isabelle is neck deep in paperwork when Jace comes barreling into the Head of the Institute’s office, nearly panting and muttering the same phrase repeatedly under his breath.

She rises immediately, rushing over to help him into the chair in front of her desk, “Jace, what the hell?” He says the phrase again, and she hears it this time.

 

_She remembers._

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are my faaave. My tumblr is @tiredmoonslut. I am going to work on this in tandem with continuing I Let You Under My Skin, my Jimon canon-divergent fic. Hit up my asks and we can yell about all things Clary and weep about the finale.


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